Beautiful Death- A backstory
by abbyfillion22
Summary: Rick's backstory about why he became obsessed with death


Rick Rogers sat in the back row of his creative writing class. This week's assignment was to create a murder scene in five pages or less. There were still three days until the due date, but Rick was stuck in a rut.

He tapped his black Bic pen against his notebook and stared at the blank page.

He had already finished the assignment and handed it to his teacher, Mr. Freeman, to take a look at.

He had stood next to Mr. Freeman's desk in nervous anticipation as his teacher took his dreaded red editing pencil and crossed out word after word on his story and written notes in the margins.

Mr. Freeman never finished reading; he stopped on page three and threw his pen down on his desk. He handed it back to Rick and said, "Bullshit, Richard. C'mon, you can do better than this."

This seemed a little harsh to Rick. He thought his story was okay.

Mr. Freeman ran his hands over his face and sighed. "If I were you, I'd scratch the whole thing and start fresh."

Rick flipped through the pages. His heart sank when he saw all of the red marks. "Why, what's wrong with it?"

Freeman folded his hands on his desk and said calmly, "There's nothing _wrong_ with it, Richard, that's your problem."

Rick looked at him curiously. "Then what-"

"It's too clean; too nice. You need to get inside your killer's head; know what he's thinking; why he does what he does. This piece is too straightforward. Everything's out in the open and there's no mystery. That's what hooks your reader; that's what gets them excited to read your stuff," Freeman said, stabbing the end of his pen into the desk. "Your characters have no substance," his teacher continued. "it feels like you don't care about them at all; like their back stories don't mean anything because it only matters what's happening in the present story. But that's the thing, Rick. _You _have to care about your characters to make the reader care."

Rick bit his lip and headed back to his desk, dropping the stack of violated papers in the trashcan on his way there.

Now, he had no idea what to do. How could he know what a psycho killer is thinking? Aren't they just normal people with normal thoughts? And what did he mean; he didn't care about his characters? He _wrote _the characters! Isn't that enough?

His best friend, Collins Abernathy tapped him on the shoulder. "Hey, Rick."

He shut his notebook and turned to him. "What?"

"Want to go hunting upstate after school?" asked Collins. Collins was a notorious hunter. He was always leaving school early to go to the woods with his dad. He was tall and athletic with a light foot that made him a great tracker.

Rick rubbed his forehead and looked at his notebook. "I dunno, Collins I should really get working on my story."

Collins reached over and took his notebook where he kept the outlines of all of his pieces. "I thought you finished, man."

"I did! But Freeman called it bullshit," said Rick.

Collin's looked at him with wide eyes. "No way, man! You're his favorite student; he never says bad things about you!"

Rick shook his head. "He didn't say anything bad about _me_, just my story."

"Well I thought your mystery was good," said Collins with a shrug.

Rick tilted his head. "This coming from the guy who wrote his midterm paper about the history of the cheeseburger."

Collins chucked his notebook at him and it hit him in the face. "So hunting or what, man?"

Rick thought for a moment. "I guess I could use a break."

The bell rang and he and Collins tossed their things into their messenger bags.

"I'm not saying I'll be any good," he told his friend. "I'll probably scare away all the game."

Collins shook his head as they stopped at the water fountain. "No problem, it's not like I hunt to eat."

Something about this comment bothered him, but he didn't dwell on it. Rick bent down and took a sip of water. It tasted like copper and dirt.

* * *

Rick cringed as a twig snapped under his foot. "Shit," he muttered as the deer turned its head towards them and bounded off.

"It's okay, man," said Collins.

Rick held his borrowed shotgun awkwardly away from them as they trekked through the autumn woods. He was decked out in camo and reflective orange. His New York Mets baseball cap covered his long floppy hair.

Collins knelt in the dead leaves and picked something off the ground. He motioned for Rick to follow him down a worn path to their right. Collins was using a high quality shotgun that he had begged his father for on his sixteenth birthday last year. He carried it with pride on their hunt, knowing that he had the best there was.

They came into a clearing where there were three bucks and two doe. Collins held a finger to his lips and pointed to them. "Just get the bucks," he whispered.

The animals seemed so peaceful and serene. They were munching on some fresh green grass that was poking through the layer of leaves on the ground. The females were resting with their front legs folded under them.

Rick raised his gun and looked through the scope, putting the deer in the crosshairs. There was a surprisingly loud bang as he fired. His jaw went slack when he realized that he had actually hit one.

Collins fired at the same time but missed.

Rick shot again, taking down a second then third buck.

The doe sprang up and disappeared into the trees.

"Nice shot, man!" said Collins, giving him a slap on the back.

Rick was still in shock. Did that just happen?

Collins leaped gleefully over the bush they were crouching behind and hurried to their game. "Dude," he said in awe. "You've got a mean shot."

Rick hesitantly followed, standing a few feet away from the deer. There were bullets all in the exact same spots. He hit every single one dead in the heart. A small circle of blood surrounded the dark holes in the sides.

As Rick stared, he suddenly couldn't breathe. Everything was blurred and cloudy; the sounds of the woods were still audible, but somehow muted. The only thing that was in focus was what was directly in front of him. His prey was so helpless; lying there on the ground, completely at his mercy. They had no idea that he would come along today and end their lives. They didn't know that today was their last day. What if those doe were their wives? What if they had kids on the way?

He backed away slowly, trying to catch his breath. What did he care? They were just animals. So was he and Collins, he realized. Would he feel the same way if he shot a person? How would he feel if he saw the life leave the eyes of Collins; just another animal?

Rick looked down at his hands where the shotgun was. It made him feel so _powerful_; like he was completely in control. He raised it once more, peering at his friend in the crosshairs.

Collins turned and stared at him. "What's the matter with you?"

Rick jumped as he was awoken from his trance. Everything became clear again; the sounds of birds and a nearby stream reached him. He dropped the gun, turned on his heel and ran.

"Hey!" Collins shouted.

He felt his tears stinging his eyes as he ran through the woods. Tree branches cut his face, but he didn't stop. He didn't know where he was going; only that he had to get as far away as possible.

He could hear Collins racing behind him. "Rick!" shouted his friend.

He ran harder, trying to escape. He went to take a leap over a fallen tree, but his pant leg snagged on it, sending him sprawling on the ground.

Collins reached him with his gun slung over his shoulder.

Rick scrambled on the ground, scooting himself backwards in the dirt. His eyes were wide and his face was full of panic.

"What the hell was that?" asked Collins, moving towards him.

Rick shook his head, feeling blood from a cut in his lip run down his chin.

"Rick, it's okay," said Collins calmly.

"No it's not," said Rick, his voice hoarse. He was out of breath partly from the run and partly from hyperventilating before. "There's something wrong with me." He kept inching slowly away from Collins, keeping a safe distance between them.

Collins got onto his knees so they were both at eye level. "Nothing's wrong with you, Rick."

He swallowed hard. It was the first time he had seen death up close and he found it so… beautiful. Only someone with a pretty messed up mind thinks like that. He shook his head furiously. "You need to stay away from me Collins, there's something seriously _wrong _with me."

"Everyone reacts differently-"

"-Not like _this!_" he shouted.

Collins nodded. "You're right," he whispered. "But there's nothing wrong with you, I promise. They're just animals, Rick."

"But they're _not!" _ said Rick. "_Someone _out there cared about them! We don't know their story, we have no idea what their life was like! It's so thoughtless! People kill, Collins, for _fun!_ How sick is that? How _sick _are we?!"

Collins stared at him. "Pretty sick." Then, as if to prove a point, Collins took his shotgun off of his shoulder and threw it into the woods.

Rick's jaw went slack. "You didn't have to do that."

Collins shook his head. "You're right, Rick. It's so thoughtless. So I'm done hunting." He held his hand out to help him up.

He pulled himself up and brushed the wet leaves from his back.

Collins put his arm around his shoulder and led him towards the trail. They walked in silence on their way back to his car. "I won't tell anyone," he whispered, finally breaking the silence.

Rick glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. "Thanks."

"Always," Collins nodded.

* * *

On the drive back to the city, Rick pulled out his notebook and uncapped his favorite pen. He wrote and wrote until the sun went down and he had to turn on the car light to see.

Collins never said anything as he drove, understanding what his friend was doing.

By the time Collins dropped him off at his apartment, his assignment was done. He had trouble containing it to the requested five pages or less. In fact, there were ten pages dedicated to the one scene alone.

The next day he gave it to Mr. Freeman. The teacher sighed and started reading. About a paragraph in, he raised his eyebrows and sat back in his chair, covering his mouth in his hand. He gasped as he read on. When he finished, he looked up at Rick; his eyes wet. "Beautiful," the teacher breathed. "Absolutely beautiful."

* * *

_May your past be the sound_

_Of your feet upon the ground_

_Carry on._

_-_Fun.


End file.
